American Idol... American Idyl... American Pastoral?
Ryan Seacrest is wearing one of his expensive-ass blazers over a Delicious Vinyl t-shirt, because apparently he wasn't already hot enough.
Ryan Seacrest, please tickle me with your chin and cheeks, first real slow and gradually real fast, to Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde.
It's kind of not fair how future historians will get the pleasure of introducing to their coevals the fact that, in the first decade of the third millenium Common Era, the three most prominent critics of American pop singers were Paula Abdul, the bass-player from a "non-classic" incarnation of motherfucking Journey, and a man who just had the following dialogue with a contestant.
-Man: "I'm gonna sing 'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing' by Aerosmith."
-Simon Cowell: "Fantastick!"
There's really no historical corollary. You can't say that, like, Brutus and Cassius were in a seedy semi-pro porno in high school, or that John Ruskin was first an aspiring singer of white-power punk rock. I mean, motherfucking Journey.
So American Idol is back, and I'm doomed by laziness and inbred compulsion to watch the whole season for the second year straight, and it's still pretty eerie how eager people are to assume they deserve to be famous just because Paris Hilton has a sex tape and some Scott Storch-produced album tracks. Then, by the time the cast of milquetoast-talents -- half of them attractive and dumb and the other half vaguely charming, in a pitiful way, and dumb -- get past the Hollywood round, I'm already sick of each and every one of them, and the show hasn't even really started yet. And yet it manages to keep the vanilla half of my brain in a positively catatonic rapture, a feeling that things are slightly less unpleasant than usual, in spite of the unpleasantness of the show I'm watching. After all, lest we forget who this Fox Network vehicle's target audience really is, it's worth noting that they put both the Navy cowboy and the Army reservist chick through to Hollywood, where they will never be seen, or at least heard to sing, again. Oh Rupert, you wag!
Plus: Julie Bowen. The love-interest on Ed (R.I.P. Ed), Jack's ex-wife on Lost, and a randy, fierce lawyer on Boston Public. A holy trinity of emasculating sex symbols. I heart Julie Bowen.
3 comments:
Four titles that stood out from Julie Bowen's filmography:
The Last Man on Planet Earth
Justice League (the cartoon)
Amy's Orgasm
"Lifestories: Families in Crisis"
- No Visible Bruises: The Katie Koestner Story
You could build a resume on those four alone.
One of these days we're going to have to sit down with a bottle of gin and watch The Last Man on Planet Earth again. We didn't give it its proper due last time. I remember it being like 3 or 4 in the morning when I finally left, and I remember being in a terrible mood. But then, I also remember Julie Bowen.
And what's this Amy's Orgasm?
Amy's Orgasm is a movie that Julie Bowen may or may not (she does) star as Amy, where she may or may not be (she is, in a deleted scene) depicted naked whilst forcing a man to give her an orgasm at gunpoint.
And your movie idea sounds like a fine one. If I recall, you left just after the remaining men gathered in a football stadium to plan their counteroffensive. But I'll be drinking rumnog instead of gin. ALL PRAISE BE TO RUMNOG!
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